She didn’t believe him.
Chapter Fifty-Two
No longer the gloriously meticulous aristocrat, no velvet, no damask and no fine dyed silk, Nicholas strode into the great hall of the Chatwyn house in the Strand, and regarded his wife.
“I’ve had word,” he said. He wore laddered black hose with a small hole at the knee, a loose belted broadcloth tunic in drab blue, and an unbleached shirt below. These were the clothes he had long worn when travelling on the king’s orders when requiring discretion and anonymity.
Emeline stared back. “What words? Who from? About what?”
“That might take longer to answer than you’d suppose,” Nicholas said, pulling up a chair and stretching out his legs and the ill-fitting hose. “Some old fellow unknown to any of us loped into the stable block this morning and informed Rob that a Sir Berendon Baker was hoping to speak with me later today.” Nicholas was smiling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”
Since she found it exceptionally uninteresting, Emeline said, “Really? And who is he?”
Still smiling, Nicholas shook his head. “I know nobody by that name. But Adrian’s home sits square in Berendon Place, Nottingham. Adrian’s name is Frye, which denotes some obscure kitchen activity, as does baking. And the use of the knight’s title, which means so much to Adrian’s conceit, remains. I therefore presume it is him.”
“So why such a mysterious message?” Having long been waiting for her mother and Avice to return from a shopping trip in the city, Emeline had spent the last half hour attempting to involve herself in some much despised needlework. Instead she had stared out of the window far more consistently than at her needle. Any discussion with her husband was a welcome distraction. She said, “For what possible reason would he give a false name? Especially if he wants to meet you anyway?”
“There are several possibilities,” Nicholas said, the smile intact. “Either he considers me sufficiently stupid not to read the code and wants me to come galloping down, incautiously and unarmed, to meet my fate. Or he wishes to inform me that we need to speak, but without others present. All guesses, of course. Adrian is, perhaps, a little odd. I always accepted that I was. But he’s worse.”
“Perhaps he wants to say he’s returning to his home in Berendon Place, and wants Sissy to accompany him. Baking – you know.”
“Sissy’s never baked anything in her life.”
“But it’s a female association perhaps – even though cooks are usually men – but at home, of course, in ordinary families – ovens and women – so he’s implying he wants Sissy to go back to Nottingham with him.”
“So why not say so?”
Emeline knotted her fingers. “So you think it’s a trap?”
“This poor old dodderer who came to the stable block,” Nicholas told her, “admitted he was paid a penny to bring the message. He was evidently given the information and the payment by a thickset fellow with a northern accent.”
“Not Adrian then.”
“But presumably one of his men. And there’s more. I sent Rob immediately to the docks at Bilyns Gate where the message said to meet this Sir Berendon Baker. Rob saw Adrian entering a rent house backing the quay. Why there? Either he’s still involved in treachery and is meeting some spy shipping incognito from France, wishes to catch a boat himself, or he’s planning on employing the sort of cut purses who often hang around the docks these days, and he’s ready for further family retribution. There are also more innocent possibilities. Perhaps he simply wants to contact his sister and the cheapest rental he could find happened to be at the dockside. I intend finding out which it is.”
“Adventure again?” She put down her needlework. “I thought you hoped he’d run, and stay away.”
“I did. I do. But if he’s back I can’t ignore it.”
She paused, then said softly, “Can I come with you?”
He laughed. “If my wicked cousin simply wants to make sure his sister is thriving, then you’d be the ideal companion. For anything else, you’d be in the way. I can’t take the risk that you’d be at risk.”
Emeline stood up in a hurry. “Adrian wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Even though he probably killed your father? Murdered my brother?”
“He might not even recognise me. I can wear old clothes, just like you. I well used to that, since my father thought that was how a modest young lady ought to dress.” She paused, then said, “And what if I promise to stay out of the way? I’ll only talk to Adrian if it’s about Sissy. And if there’s – fighting – danger – I’ll run into the nearest church and stay hidden there.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Nicholas muttered. “I’d be mad to agree. My father would hurl me from the house if he ever found out I’d permitted my wife to join me on such business. Your sister would think me a lunatic and your mother would certainly want me thrown into Newgate. Even Jerrid would frown – and that’s something he barely knows how to do. The king would probably send me off to Calais.”
Emeline danced across and kissed his cheek. “So you mean I can come?”
“Well,” Nicholas conceded, “I doubt Adrian plans on fighting or anything else too energetic after last time. And you could actually prove a calming influence. He’ll hardly be inspired to act the hero, and will more likely want your help with Sissy.” Nicholas grinned suddenly. “No doubt I should be shut up in Bedlam for it, but all right, you can come if you make those promises you mentioned. Any trouble, and you run straight into the nearest church. Perhaps you’d better pray for your husband’s miserable life while you’re in there.”
“I promise.” She twirled, skirts askew, arms out, smiling broadly. “Will I do like this? Shabby enough? Or must I poke holes in my stockings and drop pottage on my apron?”
“That hideous old gown of yours is ugly enough,” he decided. “Remind me to have any remaining item of your old clothes burned once we get back to Chatwyn Castle and a peacefully elegant life without fires or murders.” He took her hand. “But I want no cavalcade of attendants to alert whatever hole he’s hiding in, so I’m taking only David and Alan with me. Enough to protect you, my love, should there be need of it. But you’ll stay quiet and obey orders, and if anyone behaves foolishly and oversteps the boundaries of good sense, then it will be me alone as usual. Remember your promise.”
“I’ve promised and I’ll remember. I’m not the mad adventurer in this family,” she laughed.
He looked her over with a slow smile. “I’m not so sure,” he said.
A light sunshine turned the drizzle into a melted butter mist. The horses shook golden spangles from their manes. Over the small stench of the Fleet, fleet no longer, and through the busy Ludgate, four tired mounts and four slumped riders were heading east. No one observed such travellers of little note.
Where the roads were paved, the cobbles seemed glazed, their little wet stones sitting high between the trickling puddles, and the horses’ hooves clattered with a damp thud and a spray of rain drops. Where the unpaved lanes lay deep in shade, the ground gradually turned to mud. Where they rode beneath the overhang of the houses’ upper storeys, so the drip, drip of falling water seeped down the travellers’ necks, then spilling over the waxed surface of their rain proofed capes into little rivulets dribbling from every stirrup. The houses leaned in, sharing their shadows, worn oak trusses now soaked, tired beams and cracked doorways leaking. But the day remained warm and the tall brick chimneys belched no smoke nor dancing cinders flying skywards.
The travellers passed the steeple of St. Magnus, the sunshine turning the church windows into haloed brilliance. Nicholas nodded and spoke quietly to his wife. “This will be the nearest church, should you need it. We’re nearly at Bilyns Gate.”